The Tin Man sat on a small metal stool, head sunk hard upon his worn fingers. The years had seen him rust to the point of decay. His left leg was no longer the bright tin of his youth, but replaced with a spare block of wood. Even the funnel atop his head hung from a single hinge and swished sadly from side to side as he sobbed tears of iron shavings.

The heart he had been granted soon faded away. It died with the rust. He had returned from his happy home in the North with the good witch, Glenda, to live in solitude once more in the woods along the Yellow Brick Road. He hardly saw a smiling face such as Dorothy’s these days. Most faces just threw bricks at him.

The Wizard was his last hope. But this time, it had to be permanant. It had to stay forever in his chest, and the Tin Man was willing to do anything to get this. That’s why the knife was where his heart should be.